When Worlds Collide
by whosgirl22
Summary: A man has been found lying on the pavement with his head smashed in. It's business as usual for Sherlock and John...until a certain Timelord and his blonde companion show up, tracking something unusual. Can these two dynamic duos work together to solve the case? The game, dear reader, is on! S02 of Sherlock, AU S05 of DW (Rose stays w/ 10 in JE).
1. Prologue

_A/N: So here's the plan - I like to build characters slowly and take time to introduce everything fully. So if you're looking for a quick fic, walk away now. But if you stick around for the whole thing, I promise you won't be disappointed. Have patience, my young grasshoppers! All good things come in time =D Case in point - the following bit of backstory before we meet our two sets of protagonists. Enjoy._

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A strong breeze blew out of the northeast, swirling the dead and dying leaves around the faintly scuffed shoes of the suited man making his way down the street, arms crossed in an attempt to ward against the late autumn chill. 'You just couldn't stay away from the pub could you, George', he muttered angrily, gnashing his teeth together in frustration at a night gone awry. 'You just had to go in and see Beth, and then she had just had to go and get all stroppy and start a row in the middle of the bloody men's room.' And just when he thought he'd been about to get a little action too. He shook his head, still irritated. 'What a cock up.'

She'd started out well, Beth had. Younger than him, but not young enough to raise any eyebrows. Dark hair (he'd always had a thing for brunettes), decent chest, better backside. What a shame her definition of 'open relationship' didn't match his. George was a man who was always in desperate need of a distraction (or two, or three) and he had thought Beth understood that. He was so bleeding busy these days, it's not like he had any time for monogamy – he had to take his pleasure where he could find it, no matter where in the world he found himself. Bloody workload had only increased tenfold since he'd begun, christ, twenty years ago? Already? Apparently the old saying about how things got easier as you got older was wrong then. Or perhaps his life had always been this demanding, and it was only now finally starting to catch up to him. Impending age had a tendency to do that, could backhand a person across the face and make them feel like an old trampoline, saggy in all the wrong places.

He could remember when it had all been a game, when spending fifty-five hours straight on red alert had been fun, had meant two coffees instead of ten, and hadn't resulted in back spasms that left him hunched over like one of Victor Hugo's gargoyles. _Ah yes_, he sighed, lost in the memories. Life had been flashy cars, a great paycheck, and lots of women, all begging to be one of 'George's Girls'. But no longer. The honk of a passing car brought him back to the present, forcibly reminding him that yes, he was in fact, alone, struggling toward his flat in the bitter autumn air, fighting leaves in his face, and feeling like a dog who'd just gotten kicked in the bollocks by his favorite trainer. This damn assignment, that was the real problem - it was taking up entirely too much of his time, and straining relations at work almost to the breaking point, which always made everything more complicated.

_I really am getting too old for this shite_, he thought disparagingly, increasing the pace of his stride as a fresh gust blew against him. No matter, he would be back at his flat soon and the embarrassment of the night could be forgotten. There was a nice bottle of brandy sitting on the nightstand, a present from his brother – he could finish on a good note, at least. And perhaps in a few months, he could start thinking more seriously about retirement. _Yes_, he decided, with a slow nod of his head. Yes, he could live with that, for the time being.

Rather unhappily for George, 'for the time being' was destined to only last for the next six minutes. It was a relatively quick ending, in the grand scheme of things. One heavy tap to the back of the skull, and suddenly his body was pitching forward, crashing haphazardly onto the leaf-strewn cement, head lying at an unnatural angle as rivulets of blood trickled down past unseeing green eyes and seeped slowly into the path's weed infested crevices. A relatively quick ending, for a relatively simple man.

But who was the culprit? The wind whispered of conspiracies, outside forces, and a much larger story than had been witnessed. And it whispered correctly. For it would take a man of extraordinary intellect (oh alright, _two_ men of extraordinary intellect), to determine the full story behind what exactly had happened to George that night, and why.

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_A/N: So, hopefully this prologue has worked its magic, you are sufficiently intrigued, and want to keep on reading. If this isn't the case, I've failed you and I'm sorry. Please consider reading the next chapter before you give up entirely though, as it features our favorite consulting detective and his long-suffering blogger :D Feedback is much appreciated, of course. Thanks!_


	2. Bored

_A/N: Sherlock is boooorrreddd. Bored! Poor John._

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'John!' bellowed Sherlock, reclining on the sofa with the morning's paper splayed halfway up his face. He was still in his pajamas and blue silk dressing gown, his long lanky form stretched out on an angle with his bare feet on the floor, his inky curls pushed into a pleasing dishevelment around his angular face through close proximity to the arm of the sofa. He had been desperately scanning the _Times_ for something, _anything_, that could be construed as remotely interesting for a man of his skills. As had been true for the last two weeks, however, there was nothing that fit the bill.

'What has gotten into these London criminals,' Sherlock muttered darkly, a scowling countenance under the newsprint. Two whole weeks without a major serial killing, murder, suicide, or kidnapping – at this point he would have welcomed another grammatically illiterate Belarusian buffoon. _Anything_ was preferable to sitting around with nothing to do, his brain slowly rotting, his hard-drive shriveling, his mind disappearing into the mists of disuse and shifting into a specter of its former glorious self.

Even his latest experiments in maintaining the high humidity levels needed to incubate and hatch _Lucilia sericata_ larvae in decomposing flesh had not been enough to keep his interest piqued. To make matter worse, John had been spending more and more time at the clinic, forced by the lack of cases to 'pay the rent' (or so he said, but Sherlock was certain it was to escape having to come up with something to stave off Sherlock's boredom). For there was no getting around it: Sherlock was bored. BORED. And if a case didn't come up soon, he would not be held responsible for his actions.

Where was John anyway? He should have been awake and downstairs by now. 'John!' bellowed Sherlock again. Still no answer. Fine – if this required drastic action, so be it. He rolled over and quickly got to his feet, spilling the paper onto the floor. Padding over to the mantelpiece, he grabbed John's Browning (why did he insist on leaving it around the flat, he should have _learned _by now), and prepared to do something that John had expressly forbidden him from ever doing again. Without John around to keep him occupied, Sherlock really had no other option; _and besides_, he thought with a grim sense of satisfaction, the wall always had it coming. Sherlock took aim and fired, the resounding _clap!_ of the gunshot ricocheting satisfactorily off the walls of the flat. He swung around, closed one eye and fired again. _Clap!_

_There, that should do it_, Sherlock thought smugly. Sure enough, a few seconds later a muffled albeit annoyed 'Sherlock!' could be heard, followed quickly by the sound of feet hitting the floor. Sherlock grinned quickly, then let his face fall back into his normal bored scowl, lest John come downstairs too promptly. It would never do to let him know how much he actually enjoyed moments like these, after all. 'John!' Sherlock bellowed for a third time, clicking the safety on once again as he made his way back over to the sofa and flopped down, his body bouncing slightly as he reassumed his earlier position, sans newspaper.

'Yes, yes, all right Sherlock, I'm coming, I'm coming. Jesus, what's the big hurry anyway?' John called, exasperated, as he opened his door and came down the stairs in his pajamas and terrycloth robe (how he could stand that scratchy old thing when he could have silk, Sherlock would never understand). He glanced over at Sherlock on the sofa, saw the gun in his hand, grimaced, and gave a pointed look at his flatmate. 'I thought I made it clear last time that taking potshots at the poor wall was expressly forbidden.' John's tone, while mild, was certainly not something to ignore completely.

'Dull,' Sherlock complained bitterly, staring up at the ceiling. Moments passed and Sherlock risked a glance back over toward John, only to find him still staring pointedly in the gun in Sherlock's right hand. 'Fine!' Sherlock huffed, reaching over and dropping it unceremoniously on the end table in front of the sofa. John's lips twitched briefly, and something within Sherlock tightened at the sight.

'You know, other blokes might be happy to have a few days off now and again,' John commented evenly, knowing that it was sure to set Sherlock off on a rant about how he 'wasn't like other blokes, and 'how dare John insinuate such a thing.'

'I am not 'like other blokes,'' sneered Sherlock disdainfully. 'And the fact that you would insinuate as such after living with me for an extended period of time would make me fear for your intelligence, if you had any worth fearing for.' He sat up abruptly, flinging his arms up and out as he turned his blazing, hypnotic eyes toward John once more. 'Do you realize how frustrating it is to be surrounded by people who don't THINK properly?' he thundered, deep voice rumbling. 'It's boring, so BORING. No wonder no self-respecting criminal has frequented the city in the last two weeks – Lestrade, his PC plods, and all the rest of you stunningly simple amoebas have made it so dreary that they dare not approach, for fear they might be sucked into the tediousness that is your day to day life!' Seemingly satisfied for the moment with his verbal outburst, he set about fulfilling his fidgeting desires; running long fingers through already disheveled ebony curls, he rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, muttering all the while.

'Good to know you haven't lost your talent for insulting us lesser mortals then,' John replied with raised brows, a comment that earned him a quick glare from the disgruntled detective. John shook his head, chuckling quietly to himself as he turned and shuffled into the kitchen for the preparation of the customary breakfast tea. Trust Sherlock to wake him up with a gunshot or two, simply because there was nothing better to do with the time (sidenote – he really needed to remember to lock up the Browning on a regular basis). Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, to whom monotony was the ultimate punishment. John knew times were truly desperate if even his precious experiments weren't enough to stave off ennui. God knows John could do without the fingers (or worse) in the refrigerator; and lord, the smell from the fly larvae incubating in rotting flesh last week had been absolutely horrendous. However, if the alternative was a Sherlock who lounged around shooting at things, yelling at people, and wearing holes in the carpet, John would take the body parts, thank you.

As John finished up with tea preparation, the discordant strings of the violin began to sound in the living room. _Great_, John thought, _now I have to deal with Izthak Perlman in a tiff. Yet another reason to hope for a case, and soon_. Normally John thoroughly enjoyed Sherlock's violin playing; at times like this, however, it had a habit of becoming rather discordant and rather less soothing than it could be. Time for an intervention.

'Don't you think you're being a tad melodramatic Sherlock?' John asked as he returned to the living room, a steaming cup of tea in each hand. Sherlock glanced over the edge of the violin with quite a sullen look, which turned into something less so as he saw what John was holding. _God, he acts like such a little kid sometimes_, John thought, fighting hard to keep a straight face. He walked over to where Sherlock stood in front of the sofa, stopping before him with his right hand held slightly up and away from his chest. Having put the violin aside as John crossed the room, Sherlock looked down, grumbled, grabbed the offered cup and brought it to his mouth, pursing those unnaturally full lips and blowing softly across the top before taking a sip. _Bloody gorgeous though, isn't he, _John's traitorous subconscious whispered, even as Sherlock sat back down on the sofa, upright this time, as to not spill his precious morning beverage.

'You call it melodrama – I call it necessity,' Sherlock said stiffly, shocking John from his inner thoughts. _Probably for the best, that._

John scoffed as he settled into his armchair, cupping his tea in much the same way Sherlock was. 'Oh please. You can't honestly think that you will never work another case again.'

'When one has a brain like mine, John, one must consider all of the possibilities.'

Well that was enough of that. 'You know, just to prove you wrong, I bet your next case is going to be the most interesting of your entire career, bar none.' Sherlock's suspicious look had barely manifested itself before the pocket of his dressing gown gave a low buzz, as if to back up John's claim. The consulting detective brightened considerably, uncurling his right hand from his steaming teacup and reaching for his hidden mobile as John shook his head in amusement. _Kid, indeed._

_Body found on sidewalk in Peckham. Obvious signs of head bashing. Will you come? GL_

'Well?' John asked as Sherlock glanced at the screen. 'Is it a case?'

'Perhaps…' Sherlock replied. 'Doesn't sound like the most interesting one of my entire career,' he drawled, looking pointedly at John, 'but it will do.'

A brief pause, during which impossibly bright eyes met deep blue ones in a moment of shared understanding (it was a case, after all, no matter how pedestrian), and then the consulting detective and his blogger set their teacups down and proceeded to their respective rooms to prepare for the day ahead, never dreaming for one second that John's prediction was about to come astoundingly true.

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_A/N: God, Sherlock's a right prat when the mood strikes, isn't he? Good thing John finds him so amusing. Just another day in 221B, with a hint of Johnlock (more on that later). But now...on to the Doctor and Rose! As always, kudos/comments/songs/anything you wish to leave me is much appreciated! 3_


	3. London Calling

_A/N: As it says in the summary, I took some liberties with the Doctor Who canon here. I've always hated the idea of Rose being stuck on the parallel world after everything she did to get back, so in my universe 10.5 didn't happen (yeah not sure how Davros was defeated..another story for another time) and Rose stayed with the Doctor after Journey's End and helped him to essentially avert his 'Timelord Victorious' phase. Donna still lost her memory (in a completely different adventure, sad face) so she's back home and it's just 10/Rose doing what they do best. Enjoy!_

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Rose Tyler stood in the open doorway of her TARDIS and studied the building in front of her, loose blonde hair waving slightly in the cool breeze. The Powell Estates, Peckham, Southwark, England, Earth. It had once been her home, although not for many years now. It felt strange to be back, considering all of the places she had been to, traveling with the Doctor. _Her Doctor_, she thought fondly. Rose was exceedingly grateful that that lovely, incredible, mad alien had come into her life when he had. It was a little scary to think that she could have blundered aimlessly through an entire life here, a life in which she couldn't imagine even meeting Queen Victoria (much less being banished by her); a life in which she hadn't been possessed in a strange hospital run by cats in New New York on New Earth; a life in which she had never met Charles Dickens, or faced down the devil (and won), or helped save the Olympics, or any of the other countless things she'd done as the Time Lord's companion. Not that all of her experiences had been happy ones – that time spent stranded in the alternative universe after Canary Wharf was, and would always be, the worst period of her life. But she hadn't given up and hadn't let him get away again when fate had reunited them. And so here they were, back to traveling together, as it should be.

'So what are we doing here then?' Rose asked as the Doctor came up next to her, staring intently down the street where Mickey had once worked as a mechanic. 'Mum doesn't live here anymore, seeing as she's still on Pete's world. Mickey's gone too – off in Cardiff running around with Jack doing Torchwood stuff. So why are we here?'

'There's something…off about this area, or someone in it,' the Doctor replied thoughtfully, running his right hand absentmindedly through his hair, as he did sometimes when he was thinking. 'It feels like something went missing and then returned, changed…but not for the better.'

'Well it can't be me then, cause I'm definitely better off,' Rose teased, as she stuck her tongue between her teeth and looked over slyly at him, bumping his right arm with her left elbow as she did so. The Doctor looked down, indulging her with a smile.

'You're right,' he grinned, and gave her arm a squeeze. 'So whaddaya say to a little shiver and shake to suss out who the real culprit is? Hmmm, Dame Rose?' he intoned, brown eyes twinkling as he offered her his arm.

'I would love to, Sir Doctor,' she laughed, accepting with a wide smile. And arm in arm, chuckling softly, they set off down the street. _Yep, just like old times, _Rose thought happily, her purple trainers perfectly in step with his cream ones, his long tan coat swishing against the back of her calves as the cadence of their walk caused it to swing back and forth. The Doctor was wearing his usual brown pinstripe today, but had chosen to forgo the tie, leaving the top few buttons of his impeccable navy oxford undone. He was as relaxed as she had seen in him in a long time, seeming to be only slightly inquisitive about this 'off' feeling in the air. Must not be too serious then.

A slight crinkling in his brow, followed by a sudden shift in balance – Rose stopped, bent her head slightly and leaned forward, watching intently as the Doctor fumbled for something in his left coat pocket. Withdrawing his sonic screwdriver with a scrunch of that oh so lightly freckled nose, he proceeded to slide it up his coat sleeve so that the round blue tip was just visible. He then began to scan the area, subtly moving his hand from side to side, a soft hum emanating from his coat sleeve. 'So no one wonders what I'm doing,' he murmured softly to Rose out of the right corner of his mouth as they began to move again. 'Wouldn't do to draw attention to ourselves, but I hate to miss the opportunity to 'do a scan for alien tech' as it were.'

These last few words earned him a cheeky grin, a reminder of a past London experience. He grinned back, white teeth gleaming. _His Rose. _She loved being back here with him, he could tell – loved being back on a case in the right universe. And he couldn't say he was averse to having her around again. Oh, who was he kidding – it was absolutely brilliant to have her back with him. It seemed the universe was trying to right the wrongs of the last few years, the unfairness of that near fatal separation at Canary Wharf. God, he still ached remembering that day.

'So what exactly should I be looking for?' Rose asked, interrupting his train of thought. _Probably for the best – there was really no reason to re-live that, especially on a day like today_. He shook his head slightly, and refocused his gaze, noticing how her brown eyes seemed to brighten as he looked down at her.

'It seems to me that the first place to start looking around would be the tabloids – see if there have been any unusually strange disappearances and re-appearances, and the like,' he explained. 'Now…if I remember correctly…ah yes here we are' – his voice trailed off as he unhooked himself from Rose's arm and walked over to a little newspaper stand, proceeding to pick up the _Sun _with one hand even as he placed the sonic back in his coat pocket with the other. Rose followed suit, grabbing a copy of the _Daily Telegraph,_ and began to flip through it, scanning for any sign of foul play or otherwise suspicious activities.

Minutes passed, the ambient noises of the street the only sounds to be heard and then, 'Doctor?'

'Hmmm?'

A pause. Then, 'Nothing really stands out here. Are you having any luck?' Rose sounded a bit frustrated and he glanced up to see her biting her bottom lip impatiently. 'I've looked through this twice and really the only thing that I can find has to do with George Michael becoming popular again. I mean, I know the man's a has been, but a resurgence in his career is hardly the 'coming back wrong' you mentioned, is it?'

'No,' sighed the Doctor. 'Even if his mother was from Korbol. No he's hardly the smooth and slippery character we're looking for. I mean, couldn't even get a decent shag in the park without being seen, could he. Highly unlikely he's involved in any illicit dealings.'

'Illicit dealings, is it now?' Rose commented, raising an eyebrow. She would save the thought of the Doctor paying attention to anyone's sex life (celebrity or not), for later.

'Weeeelllll,' drawled the Doctor. 'What else might you call them? Generally if a good person goes away and comes back wrong, they've been involved in some sort of illicit activity or another. That or body swapping, I suppose, but I'd prefer to limit our search to the likeliest realm of possibility. No reason to go poking around morgues or graveyards, and the like; and don't even get me started on how many different alien species could be involved if corporeal exchange is on the menu. No, as long as the information remains as vague as it is right now, our best bet is to keep all senses open and aware, and hope that something new can be gleaned as a result of our heightened sensory involvement.' Having spouted this off at his normal breakneck explanation speed, he snapped his paper closed, reached out for Rose's and snapped it close as well, then threw them on top of the swivel rack they had originally come from and grabbed her right wrist. 'Allonsy?!'

Laughing, Rose tilted her palm inward and shifted down until she could clasp his hand in hers. As they continued along in the direction they had been going before the newspaper detour, the Doctor fumbled in his right pocket for the sonic (forgetting he had switched hands in the interim). As his fingers skimmed over another object, however, his eyes widened and their walking pace slowed, yet again.

'What is it Doctor?' Rose asked; in response he pulled out the psychic paper and flipped it open to reveal a string of impossibly fast phrases racing across the surface, only to disappear just as quickly. 'What in the world – ' Rose trailed off, confused. In her experience, words on the psychic paper never moved that quickly or appeared that frequently. 'Have you ever seen anything like that before, Doctor?' She looked up to find him studying the small black booklet in his hand, a look of intense concentration on his face.

'No….' the Doctor replied, slowly. She could almost see the wheels starting to turn faster and faster in his head. 'No, I haven't. In order to project that strongly and quickly for that long, one would have to have the mental acuity of, well, me. And yet I don't sense any other Time Lords around, or any alien species, for that matter, with the possible exception of our vaguely wrong friend.' He looked up suddenly, one of his contagious manic grins spreading across his face and crinkling his eyes. 'Well, it looks like we have our very first clue! Come on Rose – no time to waste! Let's go find our fabulous new friend, shall we?'

And with a trademark 'Allonsy!', a re-clasping of hands and matching smiles on their faces, the Doctor and Rose Tyler raced down the sidewalk.

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_A/N: Ooohh we're getting closer to the big first meeting! Unfortunately, we're also up to the point where I stop having completed chapters. I'm about 3/4 done with the next one and I will try to post it as soon as I can. Please review! I really would love to know if I'm on the right track with these characters and if there's anything to improve upon. Thanks! _


	4. A Brief Encounter

_A/N: Phew! It's finally up! I apologize for the long delay in posting - this chapter kept going, and going and going and I couldn't find a good stopping point. Plus I was out of state for awhile working, which never lends itself to writing. Annnyway, here we finally have some interaction between the two universes. Enjoy! =D_

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_Unassuming. Yes, that was the perfect word for this street, _John decided as he watched yet another non-descript building flash by the cab window. Another tree with the branches barren. Even the cars were nothing special, mere hunks of metal painted in varying shades of white and grey, the occasional black glinting amongst them. This was not a street for flashiness, and John could honestly say that he was disappointed. _So far so boring_, he thought, a slight frown flitting across his face as the cab drew to a halt. He pushed twenty quid in the direction of the driver and exited the cab behind Sherlock, who was striding ahead in his typical determined fashion, grey wool flaring dramatically.

John continued along in the detective's wake, knowing better than to interrupt The Work until his opinion was asked for. He was curious to see the victim, though. _Maybe if I just_…_ah yes. _Craning his neck a few degrees, he leaned around the taller man in front of him and peered ahead. Although it was hard to see clearly with all of Lestrade's people interrupting his line of sight, John could just make out the form of a man lying on his stomach, dying leaves littering his dark suit with splashes of faded color. That was it. No missing limbs, no additional items strewn about his person; all in all, it was not a very promising start to the case John had predicted would be the most interesting of Sherlock's career.

_Yep_, _dull. _ John paused at the thought, recognizing the echo of a certain detective's pronouncement from that very morning. He smiled, not surprised by the imitation; after all, he did spend practically every waking moment with man.

He knew people wondered how he could do it, how he could stand to live with a man who cared more for science than sentiment, thought nothing of leaving body parts in the refrigerator or wreaking havoc in the kitchen, and who had no regard for personal space or established social interaction. _They don't know, _he thought fiercely_. They have no idea how empty and unfulfilling my life was before he entered it._

Sherlock was excitement and laughter and intrigue – the late night dashes across London, the giggling inappropriately at crime scenes, the quicksilver deductions when lives were at stake. He could pick apart a situation in seconds, a mere look accomplishing what others could not do in a day, or even a week. His penchant for telling the truth about people was strangely comforting, although John was aware he was probably the only one who thought so. _And you're also one of the few to call him brilliant instead of freak and who asked him to stay instead of telling him piss off. _Right. Not a surprise he found Sherlock's bluntness a comfort then.

John treasured the rare quiet times the two of them shared as well, the tranquil nights spent lounging with a cup of steaming tea, listening to Sherlock play his violin with infinite grace and precision, watching Sherlock peer intently into his microscope, laughing at Sherlock's disgust with crap telly. Those were the moments no one except perhaps Mrs. Hudson had the privilege to witness, and John was rather proud that Sherlock trusted him enough to reveal even that tiny corner of the man behind the sociopathic mask. And if sometimes John found himself wondering what it would be like to see more, well, he had learned to deal with that after the first few months or so.

_Ah yes, _John mused, his face creasing in a small smile. Life with the brilliant, all-encompassing, mercurial Sherlock Holmes was never boring, even at its quietest times; and for that, John would be eternally grateful.

The wail of a far off police siren brought him back to the present with a start. He looked around, realizing that he had been standing still for at least a minute, maybe two. _Right, the case, _he thought ruefully, shaking his head at the direction his wandering thoughts had taken_. _He started forward, anxious to catch up to Sherlock, who was certain to have exposed something shocking about the victim by now. One could hope, anyway. He would never hear the end of it otherwise.

**_2 minutes earlier…._**

John was trailing behind, per usual. _Knows better than to get in my way by now_, Sherlock thought, with just a hint of a grin flitting across his expressive face. _Smart man. _Long strides eating up the pavement, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, pulling them on with a satisfying snap, even as Donovan greeted him with her acerbic yet resigned 'Hello freak'.

Sherlock barely spared her a glance as he lifted the yellow crime scene tape and ducked under, his piercing gaze already drawn to the body lying nearly face down on the sidewalk. He swooped gracefully into a crouch, pulling out his personal magnifier, and began to scan for clues, those changeable pale eyes focused intensely on the corpse in front of him. _Hmm let's see – high quality watch on left wrist (right handed), close cropped dark brown hair, vaguely military cut (PR department, would have to be based on cut and quality of suit), sparse scattering of grey hairs amidst the brown, puts age mid to late forties. Check teeth for confirmation._

He used his left hand to rotate the head to the right, to better observe the wound, meticulously picking off the dead leaves that had gathered there, sticky with drying blood. _Skull bashed in 2/3 down, wound messy, approximately 11 to 12 cm in diameter – indicative of blunt force trauma, possibly a bat or tire iron. Test wound fragments at the lab later. Time of death _– Sherlock swept his eyes down and over as long fingers found the victim's left wrist and flipped it over to reveal the broken watch face - _approximately 2:30 this morning (confirmed by blood coagulation). _A close sniff at the nape of the victim's neck – _expensive cologne, cigarettes and a hint of brandy, all indicative of a visit to the pub last night. _Another sniff and his nose wrinkled. _And met a woman as well, although a merely passable one at best. Adulterer? _A quick glance at the left hand, but there was no ring and no line where a ring might have been. _Bachelor then._

Sherlock stood and quickly circled around to the opposite side of the body, re-positioning himself in a mirror image crouch over the right ear this time, his eye caught by a small interruption in the line of the right trouser pocket. _I wonder - _deft fingers reached inside, pulling out an old-fashioned brass key, which was quickly pocketed in the Belstaff. _Ah yes, the flat key._ Even as the dull brass winked out of sight, a small noise alerted Sherlock to the advancing presence of a certain Detective Inspector, come at last to determine what Sherlock had discovered.

'There is no need to hover Lestrade,' Sherlock commented irritably, not bothering to look up as he heard the DI approach.

A short beat of silence as the footsteps stilled, then the small huff of air as the detective snorted in exasperation. 'So, what have you got for me this time, then?' he asked, fairly unperturbed by the detective's cutting tone.

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, curls quivering, and continued to stubbornly peruse the body, preferring to wait until John arrived to share his deductions. Judging by the second set of footsteps, however, that moment was fast approaching. Glancing up just in time to see John come to a halt beside the expectant DI, cobalt eyes lit to cerulean with the burgeoning excitement of a new case, Sherlock allowed himself a barely perceptible twitch of the lips upward before readjusting his gaze back down toward the corpse he was still crouching over.

'We have here a male, mid to late forties, works in the PR department of what is most likely a covert military operation,' he stated in his usual crisp fashion. 'He has been with this group for fifteen to twenty years, unhappily so for the last three to five. Given his age, slight paunch and demanding occupation, he was hoping to retire soon. He recently returned from overseas, and has never been married.' He gestured to the now leafless wound, the brightness of the latex glove contrasting sharply with the darkened ochre of the dried and drying blood. 'The murderer struck him from behind with a blunt instrument, but with this man's level of training he should have been able to fend off any attacker, even one from that angle. It suggests our murderer was quite skilled.' He made a face. 'Interesting.'

'Yes, but what's the man's name? At least tell me what his name is, Sherlock,' Lestrade gestured impatiently, completely used to Sherlock rattling off seemingly impossible facts in the span of a few seconds.

'That's your division, not mine,' Sherlock responded sarcastically, looking up to see John watching with wry amusement.

'Sherlock….'

A pause. 'Fine alright yes, if you really want to know I suggest heading back to the Rose and Crown and asking the barmaid, seeing as that is where this man was last night. Although it stands to reason that the name is fake, given his occupation, so I really cannot see the point of doing even that.'

With this pronouncement, he flowed to his feet, the elegance of his movements at odds with the caustic tone of his words, and turned to stride down the sidewalk in the direction the victim had been walking before his life had so abruptly ended. John turned to Lestrade, shaking his head, the wry smile still on his face. 'Guess that's my cue to leave then. Let us know what you find out at the pub, yeah?'

'Of course John. You'd better go after himself there, before he disappears completely,' Lestrade responded, gesturing with his chin in the direction Sherlock had gone. He watched John stride quickly away before turning in the opposite direction, mulling over the newly gleaned information about the case as he walked toward where Donovan was still stationed by the yellow crime tape.

_Last night's location is a pretty good start, even without a name or established occupation, _he thought, cautiously optimistic_. It could get tricky if the victim really is special ops, but we'll worry about that when we come to it_. Having a smart, unknown and most likely also special ops murderer was going to be complicated, and it was for just that reason that Greg was happy to have Sherlock on the case.

The silver haired detective knew other Yarders wondered how he could put up with 'that madman, Sherlock Holmes', but the simple truth was that ever since he had started working with Lestrade on cases, the number of unsolved murders had gone down tenfold. _He can be an absolute git sometimes_, the DI thought wryly, _but he's a bleedin' brilliant one._

'Detective Inspector Lestrade! Could you come over here please?' Donovan's voice called, interrupting his musings. That was her 'I am at the end of my patience' voice. Uh oh. Usually that tone was reserved for a certain consulting detective. Greg glanced ahead, eyes searching for the source of Donovan's frustration. He didn't see anything too out of the ordinary, although the blonde girl and tall man in the long tan trench coat didn't look familiar. Maybe they were the source of the problem.

'Look, I don't know who you think you are, but this is a crime scene and you can't just come waltzing in expecting to look around without proper identification!' Sally fumed, brown eyes shooting daggers at the spiky-haired man and the young woman standing next to him. She was never in the best mood after Sherlock visited a crime scene, with or without a major showdown, and today was no exception.

'What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?' Lestrade asked, slipping into his 'I'm-an-important-Detective-Inspector-with-New-Sco tland-Yard' voice as he approached her, smiling politely at the two strangers.

'Sir, this man and his _companion_' - Sally paused briefly to send a disdainful look in the woman's direction before turning back toward to Yard to investigate this crime scene, but when I ask for identification they can't seem to produce any that is credible. Would you please tell them that it's impossible for me to allow them on the premises?' she finished with a huff, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at him.

Lestrade turned, mouth opening to explain why it was that these two needed to leave, but before he could say anything the man grabbed his hand and started shaking it up and down enthusiastically, a wide grin spreading across his face, his brown eyes alight with excitement.

'Detective Inspector!' he cried. 'Just the man we needed to see. Yes, hullo, I'm the Doctor and this is Rose' – out of the corner of his eye Lestrade saw the blonde smile and give a small wave – 'and we're here to help you, in any way we can! Weeelllll, I say help, but really it's more to investigate, and I'm not sure yet what it is we're looking for, exactly. But then, I suppose that's the point of investigating isn't it?' he asked, quirking a brow first at Lestrade, then sideways at Rose, who agreed with a swift flash of teeth, brown eyes aglow with a not-so-subtle enthusiasm.

_At least he's stopped shaking my hand_, Lestrade thought gratefully, not sure what to make of this spiky haired, wide-eyed, maniacally grinning stranger.

'We were just down the street', the Doctor explained, turning back toward Lestrade, 'taking in a bit of the local culture, visiting old haunts'- he gestured vaguely over his right shoulder at the area behind him – 'when I noticed something a bit strange on this piece of paper here.' Greg blinked as a white rectangle flashed in front of his face for a brief second, only to disappear a moment later. 'We decided to track it to its source because, well, we never can resist a good puzzle, can we Rose?' She assented with a nod, the motion causing her shoulder-length flaxen locks to brush against the collar of her black leather jacket.

The Doctor's voice dropped slightly as he slanted his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together in contemplation, his right hand coming up to rest on the nape of his neck, his fingers scratching absentmindedly as he spoke. 'I suppose we're like cats that way, although I wouldn't exactly describe myself as a cat person: I look terrible in a wimple, and hospitals give me the creeps.' Rose snorted at his peculiar observation, a fond half-smile on her face, her eyes warming to a caramel color in the throes of a distant yet enjoyable memory.

The Doctor continued to ramble on at a surprisingly quick pace about this and that as Greg stared, suddenly confronted with the image of this tall, skinny bloke dressed in a nun's habit, complete with wimple. _And I thought Sherlock was an odd one. Bloody hell._

'Doctor, I'm not sure that the good Detective Inspector really wants to hear about the finer qualities of little shops and apple grass right now,' Rose interrupted finally, with an apologetic smile in Lestrade's direction. Her words caused the Doctor to straighten up immediately, eyes swinging over to refocus on Greg's face.

'Forgive me, Inspector, I…have a tendency to think aloud sometimes,' he said sheepishly, his right hand skimming quickly through his hair before dropping to his side once again, leaving an even spikier mess atop an already disheveled head. 'Right, so where were we? Ah yes – solving puzzles.' His gaze sharpened, and Greg was suddenly reminded of Sherlock on the cusp of a deduction.

'There has to be a pattern, there's always a pattern somewhere. The problem with you lot is, you're all just a bit too daft to see it sometimes. Don't get me wrong, generally you humans are brilliant – but there are many instances where you need someone to piece the puzzle together, connect the dots, as it were, and that's where I come in.' Rose jabbed him in the side, causing him to roll his eyes. 'Alright, where _we_ come in.' He smiled, back to the kid in the candy store persona. 'So how about it, Inspector? Will you let us help?'

Greg was a bit unsure. _Easy to see why Sally stopped them, and all protocols say I shouldn't even consider the idea. And yet, there's something about these two that I inherently trust. _Gregory Lestrade was a man who relied a lot on gut feelings, and right now those feelings were telling him that these people were here to help. He wasn't much for following protocol anyway, as he had proven time and time again with Sherlock. And he felt a strange sort of affection for this enthusiastic, rambling stranger and his warm, sensible friend.

'Who did you say had sent you again?' he asked slowly, trying to think of a way he could convince Sally to allow them to at least look around.

It was Rose's turn to speak up. 'He didn't,' she replied with a sigh. 'I'm always telling him he needs to slow down and explain things properly, otherwise he just puts people off; but with a gob like his, well, I suppose it's a lot to ask.'

The Doctor looked affronted at this comment and made as if to start talking again, but stopped when she put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. 'What he should have said to begin with is what I was telling your sergeant earlier – in our official capacity, we're consultants from the Torchwood Institute and we specialize in helping on cases the police are having trouble solving. Although it was a bit of a coincidence that we showed up today, it really would be in your best interest let us help you out on this one.'

The Doctor gave a quick nod to back up Rose's statement, his only show of emotion a nearly imperceptible tightening of the jaw at the name 'Torchwood.' Interesting.

Sally piped up in response; frankly, Greg was amazed she'd been able to keep silent this long. 'We have our own consulting freak already,' she sneered. 'We don't need two more, especially if they come from an organization that doesn't even exist. I've certainly never heard of the Torchwood Institute – how do we know you and your babbling friend aren't making the whole thing up?'

Rose merely gave her a Look. 'I have our IDs right here,' she said coolly. 'Perhaps you'd like to see them, Inspector?' She turned to Greg, who nodded.

Rose reached into her right jacket pocket, fingers fumbling briefly before finally managing to pull out two medium rectangular plastic ID cards, which she promptly handed over to the grey-haired detective.

He scanned the top one first; apparently, 'Rose Tyler, Consultant' had been born in 1986 and lived nearby, in the Powell Estates. He slid her card up to reveal that 'Dr. John Smith, Consultant' was a solid decade older and originally from Nottingham. Both cards seemed official enough, except that they contained formalized symbols that he had never run across before. Strange_._

It came to him suddenly that Mycroft might know more about these two. While it was true that Sherlock's older brother was a bit of a shadowy character and Greg had only met him a few times, he seemed the best person equipped to deal with a situation like this. Lord knows he would never get a straight answer from the higher-ups at the Yard. Besides, Greg was rather proud of the fact that he was privileged enough to actually have Mycroft's number, which he was fairly certain was a rare thing. Yes, he would call Mycroft, and let Sally deal with their two visitors in the meantime.

'My apologies for any trouble we've caused you, Miss Tyler, Doctor,' Greg finally replied, handing the ID cards back to Rose and ignoring the incredulous stare Donovan was giving him. 'We've never dealt with anyone from Torchwood before and weren't prepared to have anyone else show up to the crime scene today. I just need to make a quick call, then I can bring you up to speed on the case so far.'

He turned to Sally, whose disapproval was evident. 'Sergeant Donovan, will you kindly show our two guests to the victim?' As she opened her mouth to retort he shook his head slightly, hoping she would get the message. Thankfully she did, snapping her jaw shut and turning with a huff to duck under the yellow tape, not bothering to wait for anyone to follow her as she strode off in the direction of the corpse.

The Doctor, who had been impatiently bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet for nearly the entire exchange, looked over at Rose once the talking stopped, a silent query written all over his face. She nodded and he quickly snatched up her hand, launching another quick grin in Greg's direction before stooping under the rather abused crime scene tape and striding along quickly in Sally's footsteps.

'Thank you Detective Inspector!' Rose called over her shoulder, before turning forward again, just as eager to get to where the victim was lying on the sidewalk as the Doctor was.

Greg watched them go, shaking his head at the way the taller dark-haired man was practically yanking Rose's arm out of its socket in his eagerness. _It's like watching a feminine version of John interact with a nicer version of Sherlock_, Greg realized_. _Jesus, if these two really were who they said they were, then they would have to meet Sherlock and John eventually…and holy hell, he wanted to be there when it happened.

_Sherlock. Right._ Greg shook his head, trying to get his thoughts back on the case. _Time to call Mycroft then_. Greg dug his mobile out of his front coat pocket, scrolling through his contact list until he got to 'Mycroft Holmes'. Right then. He took a deep breath and pressed a button. _Here goes nothing._

'Detective Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure?' a smooth voice drawled, answering after three short rings.

'Mr. Holmes, yes, hello,' Greg said, tripping slightly over the greeting. He winced.

'Mycroft, please,' the voice responded, warming slightly.

_Mycroft. Right. He could work with that. '_Here's the thing, Mycroft, ' he began again, a bit more smoothly this time. 'I'm at a crime scene in Peckham and we've just had two people show up claiming to be police consultants hired from an agency called Torchwood. Now, I've certainly never heard of that agency, but I thought with you being in the government and all, there might be a chance that you would have.'

Measured, even breaths followed Greg's pronouncement. 'Do these' – a brief pause - 'consultants have names?' the honeyed voice inquired, the space before consultants barely audible.

'Their IDs say Rose Tyler and Dr. John Smith, although the man introduced himself simply as 'The Doctor,' Greg told him, ignoring the miniscule hitch in Mycroft's breathing upon hearing the man's name. 'Seems a bit odd, that. Then again, he is a rather odd fellow. Doesn't quite seem to be your typical government employee.'

'You have no idea,' Mycroft said mildly, his tone deepening as he continued. 'Listen to me very carefully, Detective Inspector – you are to assist that man in any way you are able, whether that be with photographs or case files or an inspection of bodies in the morgue; anything he wants, you give to him, and don't ask questions.'

'Wait, really?' Greg said, surprised. 'But, who is he? Why is he showing up now?'

'That is none of your concern, Detective Inspector,' the voice responded, decidedly cooler than it had been mere seconds before. 'Good day.' The line clicked shut, leaving a very confused DI in its wake.

_I suppose this means they are who they claim to be,_' Greg thought ruefully._ But what is Torchwood?_ He shook his head. No time to worry about that now, not when there were more pressing issues like a body lying on the ground. _Time to share Sherlock's info with the rest of the group_, he thought, turning about and striding back toward where the other officers were gathered. Then he could go and see if these mysterious strangers had discovered anything new about the victim.

**_Meanwhile, back at the body…_**

'Quick thinking back there Rose,' the Doctor murmured quietly as they stared down at the suited man lying on the ground. The belligerent Sergeant Donovan seemed to be caught up in conversation with one of the other officers, but it never hurt to take precautions. He tilted his head toward his blonde companion as he continued speaking. 'I've never had the psychic paper quit working on me like that before… well, once with Shakespeare but come on, it was Shakespeare. The man was a genius! Only to be expected.' Rose giggled as he lifted his head and winked at her. 'One question though - I take it your ID is from the parallel world, but where in Gallifrey's name did you get one for me?'

'Oh, Jack had one made up as a joke and he gave it to me before we dropped him off.' Rose shook her head, chuckling at the ex-Time Agent's sense of humor. The Doctor merely raised a brow; knowing Jack, it was as much wishful thinking as it was a joke.

'Oi, don't go all Northern and big ears on me,' Rose chided, reaching over to playfully swat him on the arm before continuing, her tone a bit more serious. 'What's wrong with the psychic paper anyway?'

The Time Lord looked around – _good, still no officers near enough to overhear. _'I'm not sure…' he deliberated, reaching into his pocket to pull out the small rectangle once again. He flipped it open, but the blank sheet revealed no answers. Sighing, he closed it gently and slid it back into his coat. 'It's been glitchy ever since that first stream of thought, back near the newspaper stand. I don't understand it, really – we followed those words here before they suddenly stopped. And when I tried to access the crime scene, and Sergeant Donovan just laughed and asked why I thought showing her a blank piece of paper was going to change her mind…well, it's all a bit strange.' His voice trailed off as he looked down once again at the body, brown eyes narrowing in concentration.

'At least that nice Detective Inspector fellow let us in, yeah?' Rose commented. 'And we're here now, so we might as well help with the investigation. The psychic paper did lead us to this location, so it's likely that this man,' her eyes joined the Doctor's on the victim, 'whoever he is, has something to do with our mystery.'

'Rose Tyler,' the Doctor commented fondly, eyes crinkling even as he continued to peruse the corpse. 'Always thinking, always drawing the logical conclusion. You're right of course – this man must have something to do with the case. So what can we see if we really look, hmm?'

Rose scanned her eyes up and down, noting the black suit, the greying hair, the bashed in head. 'I dunno, looks human.' Hearing the familiar whir of the sonic, she glanced over, watching as the Doctor played the same trick he had earlier and scanned from within his coat sleeve.

'Oooh what's that then?' he said, tone sharpening in interest as the whir heightened in volume. He crouched down, coat flaring, and peered closely at the back of the man's head, reaching absentmindedly into his breast pocket for a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. Rose grinned – she absolutely adored the Doctor in his sexy specs.

'Come here Rose, look at this,' the Doctor said excitedly, motioning her closer with a wave of his hand, the one not holding the sonic. She knelt down, joining the Doctor in his scrutiny of the bashed in skull. 'Can you see the bits of metal there' – he pointed – 'and there?'

Rose leaned forward. There were indeed tiny silver metal flakes scattered in and around the wound, small enough to be almost unnoticeable. The sonic whirred again, and they suddenly sprang to life, sparkling brightly in shades of blue and green and yellow. Rose's eyes widened in surprise.

'What kind of metal glitters and changes color only when sonic-ed?' she asked, turning slightly to face her companion.

'Alien metal' the Doctor replied, grinning as he met Rose's gaze. His brown eyes twinkled with the excitement of discovery and Rose suddenly felt her heart leap.

'So… the murderer's an alien then?' she said, inwardly shaking her head and resolving to ignore her feelings, as she always did.

'Correctamundo!' he exclaimed, then made a face. 'And here I'd promised myself I would never say that again,' he muttered, looking down and shuddering. 'Rose?' She met his gaze once more. 'Promise me that I will never say that again,' he pleaded, looking at her with big puppy dog eyes.

'I will promise no such thing,' she giggled.

'Some help you are,' the Doctor replied, and sighed dramatically.

Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and he grinned, happy to have entertained her.

'Well, if you can't promise to stop me from saying silly things, at least take this,' he said, holding out the sonic screwdriver.

Rose complied with a smirk as he reached yet again into his coat pocket, this time pulling out a small glass vial and a pair of tweezers. 'For analysis,' he explained, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he proceeded to collect a few of the mysterious flakes. Having finished, he capped the vial and dropped it back into his pocket. 'My guess is that these were shed by a Klegorian,' he said in a more serious tone, getting to his feet. He pulled his spectacles off with a sigh, folding them neatly and placing them back inside his suit jacket. 'Won't know for certain until we get back the TARDIS though.' He ran an open palm over his cheekbones, fingers lingering and pulling downward on his jaw before dropping to his side once more.

'A Klegorian?' Rose echoed, intrigued. She got to her feet, stretching her arms up and over her head, and smiled up at him, the sonic still in her hand. 'Go on then – tell us about the Klegorians. What are they like?'

The Doctor paused, momentarily distracted by the inch or so of pale skin revealed by his companion's unintentionally enticing actions. 'Oh you know, your basic assassination race,' he finally replied, trying to be flippant. 'They're an outwardly non-descript species, humanoid, but don't let that fool you. Klegorians are incredibly strong, with an invisible exoskeleton comprised of an amalgam of metals. They have no moral compass to speak of, are highly trained and work for hire.' His tone was light but the smile he quirked her way didn't quite reach his eyes, and Rose could tell he was worried.

'So what's the plan then?' she asked seriously, responding to the emotion behind his words.

'Back to the TARDIS I think,' he replied, fidgeting a bit in his eagerness to do something productive. 'These flakes' - he patted his pocket - 'indicate the Klegorian who killed this man is in one of its rare molting periods, which is good news for us. Means it's vulnerable – and even the tiniest hint of vulnerability is good when dealing with these things.' Rose nodded, and he continued along with his train of thought, in typical fast-paced fashion. 'Of course we'll need to do more tests to determine how far along it is in the cycle and how much time we have left before it's back to full strength, but it's a good place to start.' He held out his hand for the sonic. 'I'll take that back now,' he said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

Rose looked down at the device still in her hand. 'Oh right,' she replied, handing it over. 'Forgot I had that.' He flashed her a brief smile, and slipped the hand holding the slender device into his pocket, even as he turned around and began to walk briskly back toward the crime scene tape.

'Um, Doctor?' Rose called after him. He stopped, pivoted, and gestured impatiently.

'Well?' he asked. 'Aren't you coming?' His brow furrowed.

'Of course,' Rose replied. 'But what about Detective Inspector Lestrade? Didn't he say he was going to meet us over here after he'd made a phone call?'

'Right!' the Doctor groaned, slapping a hand against his forehead. 'I'd forgotten all about that.' He started back toward Rose.

'I hadn't noticed,' she commented dryly.

'Oi!' he exclaimed, pointing a slender finger in her direction. 'None of your cheekiness now.'

'Sorry,' Rose grinned, the tongue poking out from between her teeth indicating she was anything but.

'That's better,' he allowed as he resumed his customary place at her side. They stood silently, observing the Yarders around them. Sergeant Donovan had thankfully moved back toward their first meeting point and was now barking orders to an unfortunate constable. _What an utterly horrible person, _the Doctor thought, shuddering.

'So what are we going to tell the good Detective Inspector anyway?' Rose asked after a few moments, unwilling to let the silence go on for too long. 'We can't exactly walk up to him and say, oh by the way, the murderer's an alien.' She glanced up at the Doctor and twirled a strand of lightly coloured hair around her finger, worried about deceiving the man who had been so nice to them.

'I think it's best if we don't say anything for now,' the Doctor replied. 'Let him concentrate on the victim while we verify if it actually was a Klegorian or not that committed the crime.' Rose nodded her head in agreement.

'Speaking of which...' the Doctor murmured quietly, jerking his head sideways in the direction of the crime tape. Rose glanced over to see the handsome DI approaching, thankfully without the company of a certain sergeant. 'Inspector!' the Doctor hailed, pasting on a wide smile. 'Come to update us at last. How was the phone call?'

'Very informative,' Lestrade replied, a peculiar expression on his face. 'Sorted a few things, verified a few others. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.'

'Not a problem,' the Doctor replied. 'I'm afraid we weren't as successful in our endeavors as you. Maybe you can fill us in on what you know and then - ' he stopped abruptly, eyebrows arching in surprise. 'Rose,' he breathed, turning to her and pulling out the psychic paper. He flipped it open. 'Rose look, it's happening again!' He smiled excitedly.

Sure enough, as Rose leaned over she could see lines upon lines of a loopy, scrawling script flashing across the page, the same as before. It was her turn to grin. She held out a hand, knowing what was coming next.

'Sorry Inspector – duty calls! No time to stand around talking,' the Doctor apologized, not looking sorry in the slightest. He reached over and clasped Rose's hand in his as they turned together and took off down the street, unknowingly re-tracing the earlier footsteps of a certain detective and his blogger.

'Where are we going?' Rose panted as they raced down the sidewalk.

'I don't know,' the Doctor replied, sounding as if he was out for a leisurely stroll in the park instead of pelting helter skelter across hard cement. 'As long as there's writing on the paper I can tell where it's coming from and trace it, like a signal. Once it stops though…' his voice trailed off.

'Hopefully we'll have caught up to whoever this is by then,' Rose said optimistically. This earned her an encouraging hand squeeze, which she returned as they kept running after their mysterious psychic messenger.

**_5 minutes later…._**

'It's stopped.' The Doctor was standing in front of an older brick building, an intent look on his face as he studied the psychic paper. 'That's it. But why here?' he mused, his fingers roaming through his hair in an absentminded fashion.

Rose looked up at the flat complex. 'Maybe this is where the victim lived?' she offered, crinkling her brow. The Doctor gave her a contemplative look, then shook his head dismissively. 'Or maybe this is where the Klegorian is hiding out,' she continued.

'Unlikely,' the lanky alien responded, frowning.

'But think about it,' Rose argued. 'It's humanoid, yeah?' The Doctor nodded as she continued. 'That means it's trying to blend in, which would require living in a non-descript flat complex in a relatively quiet area.' She looked around, scrutinizing. 'I would say this fits the bill.'

The Doctor shook his head yet again. 'It's too quiet,' he said. 'Not public enough. The Klegorian has to walk a fine line - too few people around and it can't disappear in the crowd; too many people around and it has a bigger chance of being observed.' He gave a short bark of laughter. 'Given the recent unpredictability of the psychic paper, I'm coming to believe our being here in front of this particular building is nothing more than coincidence.' He turned to glance back down the street, an anxious little smile playing around the corners of his mouth. 'And we don't even know if it is a Klegorian we're dealing with. We're running on pure conjecture, Rose. We should go back to the TARDIS and run the tests – there's nothing further to do here.'

_He's gotten so melodramatic without me, _Rose thought, a bit disgustedly. _Well, I know how to change that. _She reached out and grabbed the Doctor's forearm, fingers sinking into the fabric of his coat sleeve. He darted a startled look in her direction. 'Hey,' she said sternly. 'None of that self-pitying nonsense now. What happened to shiver and shake? Always investigating? I didn't spend years of my life trying to get back to you just to give up at the first sign of trouble.' She emphasized _years, _the word heavy on her tongue.

He froze, eyes widening at the reference to the time spent on Pete's World, before giving a sheepish nod. A small smile flashed across her face in response. 'We'll figure something out,' she continued a bit more softly, giving his arm a reassuring pat. 'We always do.'

'You're right,' he sighed, the tension bleeding away from his angular face as he looked down at her. Their eyes met and held for a long moment, then Rose blinked and the moment was gone.

'Course I am,' she replied cheekily, moving back into safer and familiar territory. His eyes brightened.

'Right then!' he said briskly, snapping the psychic paper closed and sliding it into his pocket. 'Time to figure out how to get our lovely selves inside.' He looked up at the building in front of them, thinking for a brief moment before clapping his hands together. 'So!' he exclaimed, and threw a smirk in Rose's direction. 'As you know,' he began, a bit pompously, 'I've been to a lot of planets, encountered many dangerous things and saved a lot of lives in my many years of running around this universe. And in all those years, with all those experiences and all those life-threatening circumstances, if I've learned one thing, just one little thing' - here he paused to flash brief but triumphant look yet again in her direction – 'it's that I excel at talking my way out of any situation that I happen to run across.'

Rose snorted in agreement. _Well that was certainly true._ The man had gabbed their way out of so many impossible scenarios, it was hard to keep track of them all. Moreso, she knew from experience that the more willing to go along with his crazy schemes one was, the more likely they were to succeed. 'So what's the plan then?' she asked, glancing up at him.

'We, Rose Tyler,' he said, drawing the syllables out in the way she loved so much, 'are going to look at a flat. And not just any old flat, no – one of those flats in there.' He pointed at the building in front of them. 'I believe this scenario calls for a Mr. and Mrs. Smith.'

_Code names? Well that was new. _Rose looked on, a bit bemused, as the Doctor slid a hand into his right trouser pocket and dug around determinedly for a few moments. 'Should, be, here, somewhere,' he muttered under his breath, fingers groping. 'Aha!' he exclaimed triumphantly, finally pulling his hand free. Long fingers were grasped tightly around a small plush jewelry box and Rose's eyes widened at the implications. The Doctor unfurled his hand and snapped the lid open to reveal two plain gold bands; plucking the smaller one out with his deft fingers he turned to Rose and asked, 'Marry me?'

Rose's heart gave a startled leap and she bit the inside of her cheek, hard, to keep her mouth from falling open. Oh this really wasn't fair. _Keep it cool Tyler, _she told herself, and held out a surprisingly steady hand. 'If I must,' she quipped, as he slipped the cool band over the ring finger on her left hand. He smiled briefly, brown eyes warm.

'That's that, then,' he said, turning to face forward yet again as he nonchalantly slipped the matching band over his own ring finger. 'Once we get inside, keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. We'll keep up the married couple pretense – should be able to sneak off at some point and investigate more thoroughly.' He patted his pocket. 'I think I can get the sonic set on some sort of trace mode, which will help us figure out what exactly it is we're dealing with here.'

With that pronouncement, the Doctor started toward the entrance determinedly, Rose at his side. As they drew closer, the doors opened, and a striking dark haired man strode out, his dark grey wool coat flying dramatically behind him. A shorter man with sandy grey hair followed closely behind. 'But Sherlock,' the sandy haired man was saying, 'don't you think we should call the Yard and let them know what we found?'

'No time,' the taller man said curtly, waving a hand dismissively. 'I need to go to Bart's to run some tests.' He turned slightly to face his companion, an intent look etched across his visage. 'I need you to go to the Rose and Crown and ask the barman about last night's activities. Get as much detail as you can. Text me when you've finished.'

'Okay.' The other man nodded and pivoted toward the Doctor and Rose. They paused to let him by, dipping their heads in a stranger's greeting. He responded in kind as he passed, continuing on down the street in the direction the Time Lord and his companion had just come from.

The dark haired man paused briefly, the ghost of a smile on his face as he watched the other man depart, then he advanced toward the curb, raising one leather-clad hand to hail a passing cab.

The Doctor looked thoughtfully after the taller man as he stooped and slid gracefully into the car as it pulled away.

'What is it?' Rose asked him quietly.

'I'm…not sure,' he replied slowly. 'I thought for a brief moment…' his voice trailed off into silence, tone pondering. He shook his head derisively. 'Nah, can't be.'

Rose held out an arm. 'Well, shall we, Mr. Smith?' she asked coyly. The Doctor glanced over, smiling, as he hooked his arm through hers.

'We shall, Mrs. Smith,' he replied, and arm-in-arm they strolled into the brick building.

* * *

_A/N: So there it is, first contact made. Sort of. I may have cheated slightly. Mwahaha. I promise, the next chapter will be up much sooner. A big thanks to everyone who stuck with this story through its long hiatus - as always, comments/reviews are much appreciated! =D_


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